


Nine Years and Holding

by alakewood



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alakewood/pseuds/alakewood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's fourteen when he realizes the feelings he has for his brother are wrong.  He's seventeen when he abandons him.  Nothing's ever the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine Years and Holding

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-series, Stanford-era, unrequited wee!cest, prostitute!Dean, drug use.

He feels like a stranger in a strange land – in this place that has been, and he'd thought always would be, home with the boy that is his brother.

 _Brother._ He must constantly remind himself of this fact because of those _other_ feelings – the ones that make his breath catch in his chest when Sammy flashes him that deep-dimpled smile or make his heart pound and his dick throb when Sammy's pressed right up against him as they sleep, be it in a shared motel bed or in the backseat of the Impala.

The backseat of the Impala, that's where they are now, side-by-side, as their father makes the trip from his last hunt in Mobile up to Pastor Jim's in Minnesota. Gently, he maneuvers Sam until his brother's slack form is slumping against the rear passenger side door, then he scoots across the worn vinyl of the seat until he can go no further.

“You okay back there, Dean?” his father asks, trying and failing to catch his gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, Dad,” Dean lies. “Fine.” He readjusts himself in his jeans and presses his face against the cool glass of the window, staring out at the darkness and trying to will away these _dirtybadwrong_ feelings he has for his little brother.

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**oxo**

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It's sometime after midnight when the Impala pulls into the small parking lot of Pastor Jim's church, and the man meets them at the door of his rectory, taking heavy bags from Dean's shoulders and leading them inside. John carries Sam down the hall, deposits him on the tiny twin bed he and Dean are expected to share for the next few days, week, or however long John plans on staying with his friend.

“Goodnight, boys,” John says as he starts for the door, turning to look at his sons before he closes it. He catches sight of Dean standing stock-still beside the bed. “Get some sleep, Dean. Tomorrow's gonna be a long day."

But every day is a long day, Dean wants to argue, when he's trapped in such close confines with his brother. He wants so desperately to tell his father, almost opens his mouth to ask him to wait, but the door closes and the the room goes dark, Sam's quiet, even breathing the only sound Dean can hear.

They stay at Pastor Jim's for nearly two weeks before a new job comes up. Dean's anxious and near his wit's end and he can't take another Sam-filled minute. “Dad? Can I talk to you?”

John glances from Dean to Sam and back. “Sure thing, Dean.”

Dean flicks a quick look to where Sam's packing up his small bag. “Alone?”

Something passes of over John's face, something like amusement and confusion, but his father doesn't get confused, Dean thinks. “Yeah. Let's take these out to the car.”

Dean nods, picks up his duffel and another bag of John's, and they head out to the Impala. The bags get situated in the trunk and Dean still isn't quite sure what he wants to say.

“So. What did you want to talk to me about?”

Dean senses his father's impatience and blurts, “There's something wrong with me. I think I'm sick.”

John takes a couple steps closer, presses the back of his hand against Dean's forehead. “You feel fine. Is it an upset stomach? The flu-”

“No,” Dean interrupts. “It's– I'm _messed up_ , Dad. I have these– these _feelings_ for Sam. Like, I think about him all the time and it's _wrong._ I _know_ it's wrong. But I can't stop and I don't know what to do.”

John shakes his head and it _is_ confusion written plain as day across his face now. “Dean...”

“You should just leave me here. You can't trust me with him anymore.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Dean. I'm not leaving you here. I need you. Your brother needs you. What you're feeling, it'll pass. It's just a phase; probably just hormones. When you start feeling...like _that_ , find a girl. It'll pass, Dean. Don't worry.”

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**oxo**

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Dean took his father's advice – smothered that aching need, desire, for his brother with an endless line of girls. It started with kissing, became more physical when he was fourteen, and that turned into sex (lots and _lots_ of sex) sometime after he'd turned fifteen. But it doesn't help. Four years of trying to ignore - _bury_ \- his feelings for Sam and it only seems like they're getting worse. Stronger.

Sam's getting older, his body changing, and Dean feels a new kind of heat radiating from those coltish limbs when they're forced to share a bed. And Dean's stopped discriminating, fucks women and men alike, just so long as their eyes aren't hazel, their hair (if it's brown) doesn't fall across their eyes, and they don't have dimples when they smile.

Dean's seventeen when everything changes, when he can't keep up his charade any longer and he has to leave.

He's on his side, back to his brother, drifting in and out of consciousness because he doesn't trust himself to be this close to Sam and not do something he'll regret, even while asleep. But he's barely gotten two hours of rest a night for the whole week they've been stuck in Boise, and he can't fight it anymore. Just too tired, too worn down, and he's waking up to Sam flush against his back – Sam hot and hard behind him, his brother's slim hips canting, rolling against Dean's ass.

Sam's asleep – Dean _knows_ he is, because this wouldn't be happening otherwise, and he takes advantage of the situation before he even has the conscious thought to stop. And he presses back against Sam, wiggles his ass until Sam's dick is slotted in his crack, and Sam makes this sound – strangled sigh – and Dean feels the warm, damp spread of Sam's release through their thin layers of pajamas and underwear, and it's got him following after moments later.

It only takes Dean a minute to recover and realize what he's done, nausea rolling through him, chasing after his horror, as he scrambles out of the bed, sheets tangled in his legs as he falls to the floor and it wakes Sam with a start. Dean glances over at his father as he blindly packs his duffel, but his dad's passed out, boots on, and not waking up any time soon.

“Dean?” Sam asks through the dark. “What's going on? What are you doing?” His voice is rough with sleep and his whole last question is spoken through a yawn.

“Don't worry about it. Just go back to sleep, Sam.” He tugs the zipper on his duffel closed and fumbles into the clothes he'd worn the day before.

Sam's breath hitches as Dean pulls on his boots. “Are you leaving?” And he sounds every bit of thirteen, sounds his age in a way he hasn't in years.

“There's- there's something wrong with me,” Dean says, echoing the same words he'd spoken to his father only four years ago. “I'm not okay and...I'm sorry, Sam, but I gotta.”

Dean's halfway through the door when Sam's hands fist in his jacket. “Please,” he begs, “don't go.”

“I have to.” Because he can't stay. His fingers curl around Sam's, pry them from the fabric of his jacket and they stand there for countless moments in the dim moonlight, half-in half-out of their room, their father asleep not ten feet away. “Let go, Sam.”

Sam's chin quivers and tears spill down his cheeks and he flings himself against Dean's chest as he cries. “Take me with you, Dean. Please? _Please?_ Don't leave me.”

Dean wraps his arms around Sam's slight frame, hugs his brother fiercely, not knowing when – or _if_ \- he'll ever see him again. He drops a kiss to the top of Sam's head, face buried in his sleep-mussed hair. “Go back to bed, Sammy.” He disentangles himself from Sam and gently pushes him back inside the room. “Go. Please.”

Sam shudders in a breath. “Why? Why are you going? Why can't I come with?”

Dean shakes his head once, shrugs his shoulders as he readjusts his bag. “Just have to and you just can't,” Dean says, angrily wiping at the tears on his face with his jacket sleeves. “Goodbye, Sammy. I...I love you.”

Tears start streaking down Sam's cheeks again and Dean swears he can see Sam breaking, but his little brother takes a shaky breath and puts an unsteady hand on the worn, brass doorknob. “If you loved me, you would stay,” Sam whispers, then closes the door.

Dean feels like he's died and gone to Hell.

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**oxo**

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Dean's nineteen the first time he whores himself out. He's down in Austin, with some college guy a couple years older than him. The kid's made of money, wants to be discreet, flashes a wad of cash that adds up to three hundred dollars when Dean counts it later. It's not the first time he's been propositioned and he only says yes because of the guy's shaggy dark hair, warm hazel eyes, the dimples in his cheeks.

It's not as bad as Dean had thought it would be, but if he's honest with himself, he really hasn't felt anything for two years.

The arrangement lasts two and a half months before Dean gets the itch to get back out on the road. Staying in one place too long and he risks getting caught hustling or recognized by someone who might know his father. From Austin, he heads north, hopscotches again and again across the west coast, all the places he's never been, the places his father never wanted to go.

He spends a lot of time in LA, makes easy money there – nearly two thousand dollars in one weekend. He know it's as much his looks as his talent that makes people willing to pay so much. What makes them repeat customers.

He likes the weather, likes the heat, stays as local as he ever has for a year, roadtripping up and down the 101. He hunts and whores and thinks about his baby brother.

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**oxo**

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By the time Dean's twenty-two, he's dividing his time between LA and San Francisco. He fits in just as well in Frisco as he does in the City of Angels, but he likes it better – it's a lot more relaxed, less opulence and decadence – and he feels more like a human being than just a body.

He makes his first friends in the city on the bay, boys just like him – all fucked up by some kind of childhood trauma or another, but Dean keeps his dark secret buried deep, doubts anyone would understand the want he still harbors five years after he abandoned his little brother. Britt and Charlie take him in, show him the best parts of the city, don't pry about his past. And it's good; Dean doesn't feel quite as alone.

A year has passed and the thinks it's strange to be out with people he _knows_ , that he _likes_ , actual friends (people he can rely on), and almost even trusts. He's nothing like the man he'd thought he'd become as kid – he's nothing at all like his father. And Dean's not sure what to make of that. The life he's living might not be the one he'd expected to have, but it's okay. It works. He still gets to hunt and the unknown distance between him and Sam will keep his brother safe. And that's all that really matters.

Dean returns his attention to Britt and Charlie; he's not much for the club scene, but it's Britt's birthday and he begged Dean and it reminded him of Sam so he gave in. But now he's here, with a beer in hand, and he can feel the bass from the music thumping deep in his chest, and it's not bad. He lets himself relax, have fun, drinks a little too much and lets Britt bump and grind on him.

Eventually, Britt pushes him away and heads over towards the bar and gets them each a bottle of water. “We need to sober up,” Britt laughs, passing Dean a bottle.

Dean can feel the way Britt's eyes linger on his chest, his thin t-shirt clinging even more tightly to his skin with the sweat they'd worked up. “Why?”

“Because we're friends and I'd like us to stay that way, and you've got 'heartbreaker' written all over you.”

“Oh,” Dean nods, takes a long drink of water.

“I knew what I was getting myself into when I invited you out tonight. I know I'm not your type.”

Dean makes a face, a pinched look of confusion, eyebrows drawing together as he purses his lips. “I don't have a type.”

Britt grins, eyebrows arching high. “Yes, you do. You like 'em tall, messy dark hair, green eyes-”

“Hazel,” Dean corrects before he can catch himself.

Britt's grin widens. “See? You have a type. You know what you like.” He pauses a moment, sips at his water. “So, who was he? What happened? Did he break your heart?”

Dean rarely talked about his personal life and _never_ talked about his past. Britt is hanging on his every word. “No. I, uh, broke his.”

Britt gives Dean a pointed look, urging him to go on.

“I was seventeen. It was never going to work. The feelings I had for him were one-sided and that was never going to change.”

“But you said-”

“I know. I left and he still needed me. But it was too hard to stay.” Dean shakes his head, remembering that night. “I just couldn't do it anymore.”

Britt looks crushed. “It might be my birthday, but I'm gonna see about finding you something to unwrap, too.”

Dean can't help his laugh, even though his heart aches, feels heavy in his chest. “Britt.”

“Come on. When's the last time you were with somebody without them paying you to be there? Just loosen up and have some goddamn fun.”

“You told me to sober up.”

“I take it back. Get as drunk as you want. Then get laid.”

Dean shakes his head again but orders himself another beer, then seeks out Charlie. He finds him at the other end of the bar talking to a guy he vaguely recognizes as one of Britt and Charlie's neighbors. It's pretty obvious from where he's standing that they're moments from leaving but Charlie catches Dean's gaze and waves him over.

“Hey. You know Taylor, right? He lives down the hall from us.”

Dean offers his hand to Taylor. “I think I've seen you around a couple times, yeah. I'm Dean.”

Taylor eyes him appreciatively. “Nice to meet you.”

“Where'd you lose Britt to?” Charlies asks.

“He's on a mission to find me somebody to take home,” Dean replies, somewhat not amused.

“Got him doing your dirty work?”

“No,” Dean says, scanning the crowd for their friend. “He volunteered. He-” Dean abruptly breaks off as his heart stops beating. There's no way it's possible, but he knows it like he knows his own name and the color of Sam's eyes. Feels it bone-deep, the certainty a heavy weight in his chest that forces all the air from his lungs.

“Dean? You okay?” Charlie's cool fingers wrap around Dean's arm and bring him back.

“Uh, no.” He slides his beer onto the counter before he crushes the glass bottle in his hands. “I, um, I gotta go, Charlie. Tell Britt I'm sorry. I'll make it up to him. It was nice meeting you, Taylor.” Dean turns his gaze back to Charlie. “Sorry. Have a good night.”

He slips out the rear exit like a coward and still hasn't caught his breath by the time he reaches his apartment. And when he falls into bed, hand on his dick, it's with the image of his nineteen year old brother, grown up and beautiful, play of colored lights on his face as he stood at the center of a group of people at club, happy and oblivious.

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**oxo**

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It's not hard for Dean to track Sam down, discovers his little brother just finished his freshman year at Stanford. Learns that Sam's only been twenty minutes away from his apartment in San Mateo for a whole year. It makes his chest tighten to think about it, knowing that his brother has been _right there_ , the closest they've been in six years. Doesn't seem real and it keeps Dean making quick trips down to Palo Alto every couple of weeks to prove to himself it's not just a dream. It's crazy, he knows that, and he's only hurting himself, but he can't not go.

Watching Sam has become an obsession and Dean's too far gone to ever let go. Watches as Sam dates girls, watches as he gets his heart broken again and again, until he meets a pretty blonde. It's not long before they're moving in together and something dark envelopes Dean's heart, cocoons it with icy tendrils. He knows this is what he wanted for his brother, for him to be happy, but...

One of Dean's regulars introduces him to THC capsules when he's twenty-five and they chase away the darkness watching Sam fills him with. Drugs are dangerous, and he's watched many men in his situation succumb to one or another, but he's not abusing them – his relationship with Jack Daniels is more worrisome.

He's coming down from a high, nearly passed out with exhaustion from a very long night of very aggressive sex, watching TV from the place he'd collapsed on the couch, not quite remembering how he'd gotten home when the news comes on. There's something about what the news anchors are discussing that makes the hair on Dean's arms and the back of his neck stand on end. _Omens_ , his sluggish brain thinks, and he contemplates writing down what they're saying, where it's all going on, but he can't focus, then he just doesn't care. Curls into the pillow beneath his arm and falls asleep.

He's on his way back from LA, makes a brief stop in Palo Alto to check up on Sam and Jessica – she's home, but Sam's gone – and starts back towards San Mateo. He glances in his rearview as he gets ready to change lanes and something catches his eye. Heat lightning brightening the darkening night sky over the college town. The weather's been calm, no threat of storms, no news of rain, and that fragment of thought - _omens_ \- is unburied by his subconscious and pushed to the forefront.

His heart's racing as he pulls a reckless U-turn on the highway and races back to Palo Alto and he's almost certain he's too late as his car squeals to stop outside Sam's apartment building, firetrucks lining the street, ambulance waiting at the curb as somebody on a stretcher is wheeled towards the open back doors. Fire has engulfed, and seems contained to, one unit – Sam's. He pushes himself through the throng of onlookers, wide-eyed, terrified college kids. “That's my brother's apartment!” he screams to whoever will listen over the rush and sizzle of water from the hoses as it's directed at the flames.

A police officer grabs a hold of him and hauls him back. “Keep back, buddy.”

“That's my brother!”

“There were two people in there kid,” the officer says, still pushing Dean away from where the firefighters are working to control the blaze. “Both of 'em went to the Stanford Hospital.”

“Is he okay? Are they okay?”

The officer glances away, looks like he could be his father's age, and Dean wonders if that's why he tells him the truth. “One of them didn't make it, not sure if it was the man or the woman.”

If it wasn't for the acrid burn of smoke in his lungs, Dean would swear he's stopped breathing. “I- where?”

“You're in no condition to- Wait here.” The man pats Dean on the shoulder. “Gutierrez! Secure the scene. I've got a relative of one of the victims here. Gonna run him over the hospital.”

The officer returns and leads Dean to a squad car and it's the first time Dean's ever been in one without having been handcuffed and roughly shoved into the backseat. They're met by a doctor in the ER, the officer does all the talking, and Dean sobs in relief, collapses into a chair and _cries_ when the doctor says that Sam's alive. He's suffered serious burns, but he'll be okay.

The night passes in a blur as he waits in the small waiting room for more news on his brother's condition. He's afraid to take a couple minutes to go outside and smoke and make a quick call to Britt and Charlie to let them know why he's late, but he doesn't want to miss the doctor.

The doctor finally finds him, tells him Sam's suffered first- and second-degree burns to his arms and legs, slightly more extensive second-degree burns on his hands, and he's on oxygen for how much smoke he'd breathed. They've got Sam sedated because of the pain he's in, but Dean can see him.

He wonders how this could have happened, as the doctor leaves him alone in Sam's room. Wonders why the thing that killed their mother is after Sam, too. But he can't think about any of that when he catches sight of his unconscious brother, arms and legs bandaged, hair singed, oxygen tube in his nose. He strokes a trembling hand through Sam's dirty hair – the first touch in nine years – and he falls apart, kisses the top of Sam's head like he had in Boise.

He stays until Sam wakes up, Sam catching him with a bleary, unfocused gaze, and something in Sam's face relaxes and Dean has to wonder if Sam's recognized him, but Sam's eyes slip closed again, then Dean leaves.

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**oxo**

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“Where the hell have you been?” Britt questions when Dean finally makes it over to their apartment. “What happened? When was the last time you showered?”

Dean feels the tears threatening to fall, thinking of Sam laid up in a hospital bed, alone, with some unemotional doctor breaking the news to him that his girlfriend is dead. “My brother's in the hospital,” he says, knowing he's breaking his unspoken rule to not share his past, Sam.

“What?” Charlie's hands close around his biceps and angle him towards the couch. “Your _brother_?”

“I didn't- Dean.” Britt's beside him, hand gently squeezing his knee, a comforting gesture.

“I haven't seen him since I was seventeen,” Dean says, which is kind of a lie, but not really – Sam never knew he was being watched.

“Seventeen?” Britt echoes, and Dean sees him forming connections in his head, a confession about an unrequited love he'd made three years prior and this, and he knows Britt's figured him out. Britt's eyebrows draw up and he bites at his bottom lip before pulling Dean into a surprisingly strong hug. “Oh, God, Dean, I'm so sorry.”

Britt knows – he _does_ \- and it doesn't bother him. Dean sighs, sobs, and hugs Britt back.

“Is he- is he gonna be okay?” Britt's hand is soft on his face as he looks Dean in the eye.

“Yeah, I think so,” Dean says, reaching up to Britt's hand, squeezing it in thanks as he pulls it from his cheek. “There was a fire, he got burned pretty bad. His hands are the worst.” Dean looks down at his own hands in his lap, remembers how, when they were kids and Dean had just suffered through his first real growth spurt and his hands had grown to be almost comically out of proportion with the rest of him except his feet, and Sam pressed his palms against Dean's and marveled at the difference. _“Am I ever gonna be as big as you?” Sam asked, fingers tensing against Dean's._ “He, um...his girlfriend died.”

Charlie's fingers closed over his shoulder, barest of pressure. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Anything,” Britt says earnestly.

Dean shakes his head. “No, but thank you. Just being here...that's enough.” He gets up from the couch and leaves, Britt hugging him hard at the door.

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**oxo**

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Dean's not sure if Sam's got medical insurance, calls the hospital to check on his brother's condition because he can't go back there now that Sam's awake, and he finds out Sam does have insurance, but it'll only cover his treatment, not the skin grafts he'll need or the therapy after, and Dean's more than willing to pay for whatever Sam needs.

He takes on more customers, let's hunting take a backseat, tries not to think about what Sam's doing once he's been released from the hospital. It's hard not to drive down to Palo Alto to see him, but Dean's not sure if Sam knows he was there and he can't take the risk of getting found out now.

His Thursday eight o'clock is twenty minutes gone, and Dean's got himself showered and preparing for his ten o'clock when there's a knock on the door. Arms full of bedsheets, he glances at the clock on the wall – it's just after nine thirty. He tosses the sheets to the floor, readjusts himself in his boxer-briefs, and heads for the door. He doesn't look through the peephole, just throws the door open.

Sam looks as shocked as Dean feels, like he didn't quite expect to find Dean standing there, though Dean knows damn well Sam doesn't slack off on research or homework and wouldn't have knocked if he hadn't been certain.

“Sammy,” Dean breathes, hand falling from the doorknob to his side, slack, and he's afraid his knees just might give out, too. “What are you doing here?”

Sam bites his bottom lip and stares at Dean, tears forming in his eyes, and Dean can't tell if it's relief or anger. “One of my nurses in the hospital told me my brother had come in the night of the fire and stayed with me until I woke up. I didn't believe her because you were _gone_. You've been gone for nearly ten years, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head. “I was there. I have been.”

“For how long?” Sam doesn't make a move to come closer, stays just outside the doorway.

“Three years.”

“You've known where I was for _three years?_ And you never thought to-” Sam breaks off, drives his fist into the wall outside Dean's door. He curses, shakes his hand out, and brings it close to his chest.

Dean reaches out, crosses the short matter of feet, acting on the big brother instincts he hasn't quite forgotten even after all this time, and grasps Sam's scarred and bleeding hand. He hadn't meant to touch him. But he has, and now he looks up at Sam. Looks _up_ at Sam because his little brother is _tall._ “I'm sorry,” he says, dropping Sam's hand and backing away. “Come in here and I'll find you something to wrap that with.” Dean retreats into the small apartment he keeps in the city for work, the one leased under a false name.

The door's closed and Sam's standing in the middle of the open space that makes up the main living area, a couple of leather chairs and a low, glass coffee table separated from the bed by an engraved wooden room divider. “Why'd you leave?” Sam asks, wrapping the gauze Dean offers him around his bleeding knuckles.

“Which time?”

“The first time. You said there was something wrong with you...”

Dean nods, keeps his distance from his brother. “Yeah. Still is.”

“What is it, Dean? I've been waiting for an answer for over nine years. Been wondering why you _left me behind_ for nine years.”

There's another knock on the door before Dean can reply and, God help him, Dean's never been more grateful for Colin – his overeager ten o'clock – to show up early like he always does, even though Dean's asked him not to. Dean scratches at the back of his neck. “I, um, I'm kind of working right now-”

“Working?” Sam asks disbelievingly. He scoffs but doesn't roll his eyes like Dean expects.

“Yeah. Look, I know we've got a lot to talk about, but...”

“Not right now, right?”

“Yeah.”

“'Cause you're _working._ ”

“Sam.”

“Sorry. It's just been nine years and you don't seem very happy to see me.”

“Sammy. I-” Another knock at the door interrupts him. “I'm sure you've got the address for my apartment in San Mateo. Meet me there tomorrow at noon.”

“Sure your schedule's clear?”

“Don't do this, Sam.”

“I just- This isn't quite the reunion I'd expected when I finally found you.”

“I know. I'm sorry.” He goes to the door, waits until Sam's right behind him before he opens it. Colin stands by patiently, eyes Sam curiously, but doesn't say anything to Dean. He lets Sam slip past him. “I'll see you tomorrow. Okay, Sammy?”

“Yeah, Dean. Tomorrow.”

Dean lets Colin into the apartment and watches Sam disappear down the hall and into the stairwell. When he can no longer hear Sam's footfalls, he closes the door and turns to Colin. “You're early. Let me finish up in there, then we'll get started, yeah?” He loosens Colin's tie, gently shoves him towards one of the leather chairs.

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**oxo**

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Dean's more nervous than he's been since he can remember, waiting for Sam to arrive. He's cleaned the whole apartment, rearranged the furniture in his small living room, and has a pot of coffee percolating by noon. He sits at the edge of his couch cushion and watches the hands on the clock above his TV tick the minutes by until it's quarter after. He's wondering if Sam's rethought coming when the door buzzer sounds. He rushes to the door, hits a button on the intercom. “Sam?”

“Yeah.”

Dean pushes another button. “Come on up.” A minute or so later, there's a knock on the door, and Dean's still standing right there, pulls it open. “Hey.”

“Hi. Sorry I'm late.”

Dean shakes his head, opens the door further to let Sam inside. “It's okay.” He gestures to the couch, closes the door behind Sam. “You want anything? I've got coffee going.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Coffee'd be great.”

“Milk or sugar?”

“Both. Lots of sugar.”

Dean smirks, nods, and disappears into the kitchen to return a couple minutes later with two mugs. He offers one to Sam and takes a sip of his own. “So. Where do you want me to start?”

“You could start by telling me what kind of work you do in your...”

Dean knows the next word out of Sam's mouth is supposed to be 'underwear,' but Sam's apparently figured it out all on his own what kind of work Dean does. He watches Sam, waits for the reaction, but Sam's face is a smooth mask.

“How long have you been...?” It seems like Sam can't say the word, but Dean knows what he's asking.

“Since I was nineteen.”

“Why?”

Dean shrugs. “Pays the bills.”

“So does a normal, _legal_ job.”

“Since when have Winchester's cared about normal and legal? Besides you, I mean.” Dean instantly feels like an ass for bringing up Stanford, knows it's going to take Sam back to the fire, to his girlfriend's death. “I'm sorry, Sam.”

“Don't.” Sam takes a long drink from his mug, cradles it between his two huge hands. “You were gonna tell me why you left.”

“Yeah. I...I don't know how I'm supposed to say this.” He's never thought about the words he'd use to explain to Sam why he'd left in the middle of the night all those years ago. Even after Sam appeared at his door the night before, after their brief conversation, after Dean had explicitly told him he'd give Sam the answers he wanted, he hadn't actually thought it through.

“You found out, didn't you?”

Dean lifts his gaze to Sam's face, sees determination there. “Found out what?”

“About me. That night in Boise. You left because of me. Because you found out how I felt about you.”

Dean sets his mug on the coffee table and angles his body towards Sam, not knowing – not _understanding_ \- what it is Sam's trying to say. “What?”

Sam chews on his bottom lip, sets his mug beside Dean's. “I thought you were asleep. If I knew you weren't I never would've- You never caught me before. You were pulling away from me and I just _needed_...”

“Sammy, what are you-”

“I _loved_ you, Dean. I _wanted_ you.”

“You were _fourteen._ ”

“I know. I _know_.”

“You were confused.”

“I wasn't. I knew what I wanted. There was never anyone but you. And I made you leave.”

“Sam,” Dean says quietly, gentle hand on Sam's knee. “Sammy, I left because of _me._ Because of the feelings _I_ had for _you_. I was just trying to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” He shakes his head. “You have no idea what happened after you left, do you?”

“No.”

“It got bad. I was certain Dad blamed me for it, but he just trained me harder, like that was my punishment. Took me on hunts I had no business being on and he got sloppy. Put me in danger more times than I can count. I'm lucky I'm still alive.”

“Sam, I didn't know.”

“It's not your fault he couldn't handle it. I got out of there as soon as I could. Haven't talked to him since I left, but Bobby keeps me updated on what he's doing. How he's doing.”

“I told Dad, when I was thirteen, how I felt about you 'cause I knew how _wrong_ it was, but he said it was just a phase I'd grow out of. The advice he gave me was complete shit.”

“Is that why you had a new girlfriend every week?”

“Girlfriends, boyfriends. Towards the end I wasn't too picky. They showed interest, I...” He shrugs.

They're both quiet for a while and Sam's the one to break the silence. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“All this time and I...Seeing you yesterday...” Dean senses Sam's frustration at not being able to get out what he wants to say. Sam's nostrils flare and he licks at his lips. “I still...”

Dean realizes his hand is still on his brother's knee, he tenses his fingers, curls their tips more firmly against the muscle of Sam's thigh. “Sammy?”

Sam tugs his bottom lip between his teeth again, then he's leaning in towards Dean, trembling, tentative hand curving around the side of Dean's neck, thumb brushing his jaw. “Nine years, I've waited,” Sam whispers.

Dean knows what Sam wants, sees the question plain as day in his brother's eyes. And Dean, he wants it too, but it's been so long since he's been with somebody because he wanted to be with them, not because they were paying him for sex. And Sam. He deserves more than Dean can offer. Sam's stalled, inches away, like he feels Dean's hesitation. “I don't know if I can...”

“Just let me...” Sam scoots closer, leans in, presses a soft kiss to Dean's temple. Lets his lips trail across Dean's cheek until they meet Dean's, a barely-there brush of skin. “Okay?”

Sam's breath ghosts over his lips and Dean opens his eyes, not remembering closing them, and Sam's right there. “Okay.”

Sam leans forward again, nose grazing Dean's as he covers Dean's mouth with his own from an angle, lips parting to close over Dean's lower, tongue swiping over the sensitive flesh. “Please?” Sam murmurs brokenly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

It's been so long since he's been kissed; it's the first of the handful of rules he has when it comes to his whoring. It's somehow more intimate than sex, and he hasn't been kissed since Marcus back in Austin when he was nineteen. He opens his mouth under Sam's, lets his little brother lead. Sam kisses him slowly, gently, and, God, it's good. His breath hitches and Sam's name leaves his mouth on a sigh.

Sam reacts to that by deepening the kiss, hands roaming Dean's chest, slipping around to his back to pull him closer. “Dean,” he breathes, mouth breaking away from Dean's to close wetly over his brother's throat in a scrape of teeth and gentle suction.

Dean's hands find their way to Sam's hair to hold his head in place, pleasure spiking through his body like an electric current. He pants raggedly, suddenly finds himself on his back on the couch, Sam half on top of him, hard against his thigh. Dean braces his left foot against the front of the couch, uses the leverage to press his leg between Sam's, and Sam lets loose a strangled moan, thrusts down. “Yeah? You like that?” He rolls his hips up. “Yeah. Come on, Sammy.”

But Sam stills above him. “Stop, Dean,” he says against Dean's neck. “Don't do that. Not with me.”

Dean's heart thunders in his chest. “I don't-” He gets his hands between them, pushes at Sam's chest until there's distance between them again. “I'm sorry. I don't think- I don't think I can do this.”

“Can't or don't want to?”

“Can't. I don't know how to be like this with you.”

“But you want to?”

“I've wanted this since-” His feels cheeks burn hot at his admission before he even says it. “Since I knew what my dick was for.”

“We can go as slow as you want, okay? Just...no dirty-talk.”

Dean's still uncertain, knows it's obvious when Sam's moving over him again, covers Dean's body with his own until they're flush from chests to hips, legs tangled together, half-lying on the couch. “Slow.”

“Slow,” Sam agrees, mouth dropping back to Dean's for a languid kiss, hips canting against Dean's in a lazy almost-rhythm.

Dean's hands are up under Sam's shirt, blindly mapping out hot, muscled skin. He wants. He wants so much. He wants more.

“Okay,” Sam says, and Dean realizes he's spoken aloud. Sam leans up, an arch of his back, tugs off his shirt, hovers over Dean, solid muscle and vulnerable, scarred skin.

Dean pushes himself up on an elbow, presses a kiss to Sam's chest right over his brother's heart. “I love you,” he mouths against the smooth, warm flesh. He sits, buries his face in Sam's neck. Makes a decision. “Come with me.” He extracts himself from beneath Sam, kisses his brother and coaxes him towards the hall, then down it and to his room. No one's ever been in here but him. The one place in his life where nobody else is allowed. Except Sam. Because Sam's like the other half of his whole, Sam is what makes him complete. Dean turns the knob, pushes open the door, and leads Sam into the sparsely furnished room. The bedclothes are white, the walls are white, the carpet on the floor and the curtains on the window are white. The dark mahogany of the bed-frame, the nightstand beside it, and the dresser against the wall are the only contrast, except for their skin when they fall to the sheets in a tangle of half-clothed limbs.

Sam helps Dean out of the constricting denim of his jeans, shucks his own, then there's nothing between them. Sam kneels between Dean's thighs, kisses him languorously, trails his mouth down Dean's throat and the span of his chest, explores and tastes, takes his time. They're in no rush, there's no hurry; they've waited far too long for this to be over too soon.

Dean's fingers tangle in Sam's hair again, can't touch his brother enough, uses him as an anchor to reality as though he's a ship that's lost his moorings set adrift on a sea of illusion. Every nerve ending in his body is set alight with euphoria as Sam slips lower, teeth scraping over the jut of Dean's hip bones. He nearly comes right there when the flat of Sam's tongue swipes up the underside of his cock. He cries out, isn't ashamed of the whimper Sam draws from him with that fleeting touch. But his fingers tighten in Sam's hair, guide his brother back up his body.

Sam strokes his palms up Dean's thighs as he settles between them. He braces himself on his right hand, his left skimming higher over Dean's hip, grips him with gentle fingers to roll him onto his side. He lies down, hooks his calf behind Dean's knee and pulls his brother closer. His mouth finds Dean's again, an unhurried kiss that leaves Sam rocking his hips into Dean's.

It's not enough. Dean takes control, pushes Sam onto his back, straddles his groin and grinds down, their cocks slip-sliding in the precome they're messily leaking. “Sammy,” he gasps, doing it again.

Sam's hands clutch at Dean's hips, long fingers spreading over the firm muscle of the cheeks of Dean's ass. He pants, bucks up against Dean. “Please,” he begs. “Don't stop.”

But it's, _Please. Don't go_ , that Dean hears, thirteen year old Sammy standing in the doorway of that motel room in Boise, begging Dean not to leave. “I won't,” Dean promises, crushing his mouth to Sam's. “Not going anywhere.”

They've drawn it out as long as they could, but they can't hold back. Find themselves at the tipping point. Sam's right there, ready to go over. “Dean, please.”

“Sammy,” Dean whispers against Sam's mouth, then he comes undone, spilling hot over his brother's stomach.

Sam lets go, comes hard, his release mingling with Dean's between them. He pulls Dean to him, ignores the mess of their bellies, closes his mouth over Dean's, slow and tender kiss. Promise and plea. “Tell me you won't leave me again.”

“I'll never leave you again,” Dean whispers fiercely into Sam's ear, nose pressed to his brother's sweaty hair at his temple.

“Promise.”

“I promise.” He kisses Sam's neck, wraps his arms around his brother. “I love you, Sammy. Never stopped.”

“Love you,” Sam whispers back, holding Dean tightly as though he's afraid he'll disappear.

Nine years, come and gone. Mistakes made. Walls built. Hope nearly lost. But fate has brought them back together. Two broken hearts mended, made complete. Two halves of one whole. As sleep begins to pull him under, Dean wonders if things would've been different if he had stayed. He looks at Sam, brushes overgrown bangs away from his face and kisses the corner of his eye. Sam just presses closer, holds him tighter. He doesn't know how things could've been, just knows how they are. And, right now, Sam's in his arms, and that's all he's ever wanted.


End file.
